


Covariance

by Saathi1013



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon, Canonical Alternate Universe, Canonical Character Death, Doomed Timelines, F/M, M/M, Multi, POV Alternating, POV Third Person Limited, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:57:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In probability theory and statistics, 'covariance' is a measure of how much two variables change together. Two timelines and what-could-have-been for Matt and Mohinder (and Molly).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covariance

**Author's Note:**

> The formatting is a little weird on this one, to accommodate the jumps back and forth between timelines, so please bear with me, here.
> 
> * Anything on this indent is in the “5 Years Gone” timeline, with the “Sylar gets Claire’s powers (but she survives)” cause/effect factored in.
>
>> > * Anything on this indent (using the blockquotes feature) is in the “Out of Time” timeline, with some liberties as to possible contributing factors leading up to it – which means much of it parallels Season 2 in some ways.
> 
> Any similarities between scenes across both timelines and the ‘core show’ timeline is likely intentional. Management apologizes for any confusion and hopes that it will be worth it in the end. 

Hiro stabs Sylar and he regenerates. 

After this, there’s the chaos of many people rushing the serial killer, getting thrown around like rag dolls, but getting kicks and punches and more stabs in while he’s distracted.  Then there’s the bright glow from inside the knot of violence, and Hiro throws his hands out and shuts his eyes and reaches out and there are hands on his arms, jacket, shirt, as he takes everyone away.

Well, not  _everyone_.  But as many as he can, and those who escaped learn to live with the guilt of having snagged a handful of cloth while those they loved… didn’t.

 

> Hiro stabs Sylar and the body disappears. 
> 
> Months later, Bennet calls – late, because of the time difference – and Mohinder hangs up on him because Molly’s having a nightmare and he really doesn’t care to play Bennet’s games when his little girl is screaming down the apartment complex.  Besides, the Company got its teeth pulled with Linderman and Thompson dead, and their best operatives turning rogue on them every chance they get, right? 
> 
> More disturbing is the idea of Molly’s Boogeyman and her Nightmare Man both on the loose.  Mohinder has his hands full.

 

Nathan Petrelli has set up office in Gracie Mansion, as the usual Congressional offices lie in rubble and the mayor has retreated to his private residence in upstate New York.  Of course, the mayor visits Ground Zero for the usual photo ops and speeches, makes grand gestures and promises, but cannot match the power of Nathan’s practiced, mournful gravitas, nor his fervent pursuit of knitting together the grieving city with answers.  With  _solutions_.

A few weeks after the tragedy, Nathan requests a meeting with a relatively-unknown geneticist. 

He is mildly – only mildly – surprised when Dr. Suresh actually shows up.  Nathan gestures to the two armchairs by the fireplace, and takes a moment to scrutinize the other man while they both sit.  He looks as if he hasn’t slept since escaping Kirby Plaza, and Nathan says so after dismissing the help. 

“I appreciate your concern for my sleeping habits, what with everything else on your plate,” Suresh replies, a faint spark of wry humor beneath the exhaustion.

“What have you been doing with your time, Doctor?  Have you made any strides in piecing together your father’s research since your apartment was destroyed?”  Nathan raises his eyebrows a fraction, already knowing the answer.  He has private investigators on permanent retainer; he inherited them from his father, along with one bodyguard and the downstairs housekeeper.  They are all very good at their jobs, so Nathan knows  _exactly_  what Mohinder’s been up to (and the Petrelli silver is  _spotless_ ).

Suresh fumbles in his pocket, and Nathan briefly wonders if sending his bodyguard out of the room was a good idea. But the geneticist simply removes his keys with a muted jingle, and Nathan sees a jump drive among the glinting metal.  “I have his research with me at all times, and there are back-ups in –“ he pauses, replacing his key ring in his jacket.  “-elsewhere.”

Nathan allows himself to smile, a little, at the other man’s caution.  “I didn’t ask you here to steal your father’s research, Doctor.  I want to sponsor it.”  His smile widens as Suresh looks blindsided, gaping for a moment. 

“Well, I’m afraid, continuing my father’s research has taken second place to – other pursuits.”

“That’s a shame, Doctor Suresh.”  Nathan stands and goes to his desk, retrieving a file.  “A man of your considerable ability shouldn’t be wasting his time and intellect in tracking down-”  He sets the folder down on the eighteenth-century coffee table and flips it open, continuing, “-some  _watchmaker_.”

It doesn’t escape his notice that, at the sight of the photograph clipped to the first page, Suresh visibly recoils, his hands balling into fists.

“I have far,  _far_  better resources for such a manhunt, if you are convinced that Mr. Gray, here, is someone worth finding.”  Nathan sits down again and leans in, deadly serious.   “And in exchange, you can do me a favor.”

Suresh’s gaze in return is appropriately wary.  “Just what would that favor be, Congressman?”

“I have pledged, privately and publicly, to find those responsible for the explosion at Kirby Plaza and bring them to justice.  Now that I know that this…  _Sylar_  is our man, I plan to do so.”  Nathan leans back in his chair and stares into the middle distance, contemplatively.  “But that’s not enough.  I can’t rest, knowing that he’s not alone.  There are others out there, others with abilities I can’t even dream of – and whose motives I couldn’t even begin to guess.”  He turns the full force of his gaze on Suresh, knowing its effect.  “I need you to continue your father’s work, towards the goal of preventing another Kirby Plaza Event.  After my speech tomorrow, you’ll have all the funding you’ll ever need, and in return…” Nathan quirks his eyebrows a fraction as he pauses. “I’ll let you have the first shot at Gabriel Gray when we bring him in.”

Suresh draws in a quick breath, and Nathan knows he’s just acquired a geneticist for his staff.

 

> Mohinder finds ways to fill the time, applying for citizenship and sorting through reams and reams of carbon copied-forms that are redundant and frustratingly obtuse.  He studies for the exam, which takes up an hour each night for a week before Matt points out that he’s overhearing the Constitution in  _stereo_  thoughts, so why doesn’t Mohinder just study with Molly already?
> 
> Mohinder drives his taxi to bring in extra money; he doesn’t speak to his fares, anymore, pretending broken, accented English because getting Involved With Strangers is dangerous.  Once, a sharp-looking blonde girl in an electric-blue suit asks him to take her to Kirby Plaza.  He drives white-knuckled and tense across town, darting glances into the rearview more than is safe.  She catches him and smiles, flirtatiously, and he grits his teeth and watches the road.
> 
> Occasionally, he gets a call back from one of the many universities, asking if he’s available to fill in a lecture or a class.  He does, but they don’t call back, don’t offer a more permanent position.
> 
> He spends most of his time caring for Molly, and making sure Matt goes to physical therapy.  He makes sure that Matt doesn’t slack off on studying for his detective’s exam (which he doesn’t, really, but Mohinder doesn’t understand that American men can’t study when there’s a “football” game on television the same way half the world goes on pause during the World Cup), and that they all eat a home-cooked meal at least once a day.
> 
> Unease creeps under his skin, dissatisfaction makes his shoulderblades twitch, after about a month.  Sylar’s out there somewhere, and Molly’s nightmares are getting worse.  He isn’t helping anything by standing sentinel while Matt rebuilds his life around them and Molly bounces back like this is all she’s ever known.
> 
> His father’s research is gathering dust.
> 
> He pulls out his laptop and boots up the List, watching as names scroll by.  He has some editing to do.
> 
> _Deceased.  Deceased.  Missing.  Deceased._
> 
> Faces are conjured as he types, and he goes online to download articles he attaches to the names.  Cross-references entries, based on secrets he overheard or helped expose.  He blots out the emotional attachments, because how can he distill fear and rage and betrayal and admiration and awe for so many into the dry, academic database his father set up?
> 
> He opens up GoogleEarth and starts recreating his father’s map, tracing travels, and first meetings, and final breaths, attaching the tags to the List’s entries.  It’s four a.m. before he realizes it’s incomplete and he can’t finish without talking to some of them…
> 
> He still has names and addresses.  He can start tracking them down tomorrow.
> 
> When he finally goes to bed, Mohinder’s eyes are gritty and his back aches from the hard, wooden chair he’d been using, but the itch beneath his skin is gone.  Only as he drops off to sleep does he realize he’s not just doing his father’s work. 
> 
> He’s doing more than that; he’s writing  _history_.

 

Matt leans on the doorway, looking at Molly’s sleeping form.  She seems to be having nightmares, tossing fitfully in her sleep, but he can’t quite focus his ability to hear them, with the painkillers fogging his brain.  He shifts his shoulder so the sling doesn’t dig so deeply into the side of his neck.

“Parkman!”  A familiar voice barks behind him and he whirls to see Agent Hanson striding up to him, her expression thundercloud-dark.  Nurses and med students scramble out of her path like she owns the whole damn hospital.   “Why am I  _not_  surprised to see you here?”

Matt smiles his best smile, working the dimples, but it doesn’t save him.  The scowl doesn’t leave her face as she snags his coat and pulls him into an empty room.  “Good to see you, too, Audrey.  You look  _great_.  Did you do something different with your hair?”  It looks darker; maybe she dyed it.

“Cut the crap, Parkman.  What do you know about the Kirby Plaza Event?  Was it Sylar?”  She’s leaning on the only door out of the room, her arms crossed.

“Uh – Honestly, I wasn’t actually conscious when it all went down –“  This isn’t exactly true, he can remember a bright light, and a small hand reaching out to touch his face…

“But you were there, at Ground Zero.  Sylar was there, wasn’t he.”  It’s not exactly a question, and part of him wants to remind her of all those rookie rules about leading a witness during an interrogation, but he’s not out of the woods yet.

“Yes, but so were a lot of Specials.”  After Congressman Petrelli’s speech last week, outing Sylar and his abilities as the cause of the Kirby Plaza Event, pundits had jumped on his repeated use of the word ‘special’ and coined a new minority name almost overnight.  “I couldn’t even begin to list all the weird stuff everyone there could do.  There was this guy who could walk  _through_  stuff, and his wife was, like super-strong.”    Thank  _God_  she’d been on his side, this time.   He realizes that he’s babbling, because there’s been no one else to talk to about this who’d believe him, and he couldn’t explain all this to Janice on the  _phone_.  Audrey’s eyebrow crawls right up into her hairline, but he keeps talking, recklessly.  “It was  _incredible_.  Peter could even absorb other people’s abilities-“

“Peter who?”  Audrey picks up on the first name he says.

“Peter Petre-“  And here, he has enough sense to stop himself, but not in time.

Audrey springs away from the door and into Matt’s personal space, and he’s reminded that people a third his size  _can_ intimidate the hell out of him.  “Petrelli?!  Peter  _Petrelli_?  The suicidal emo brother of  _Nathan_  Petrelli is a  _Special_?”

Matt closes his eyes.  He did  _not_  just out a Congressman’s family member as a dangerous and instantly mistrusted minority.  “No, uh, no relation?”  She’s not buying it and Matt bangs the back of his head against the wall.

“I don’t have to be a mind reader to know when you’re lying to me.”  Audrey opens the door and drags him back into the hallway by his bad arm, and he bites back a yelp.  “Come on.”

“No, no, you can’t say anything to anyone.  Audrey, ow, wait!”  She stops and Matt puts his good hand on her shoulder.  “Please, pretend I didn’t say anything.   _Please_.”  Her eyes search his earnest gaze and she sighs, scowling again.

“Fine.  But now you owe me one.”  Matt nods, relieved, and glances across the hallway.  There’s a familiar man, sitting next to Molly’s bedside, gently smoothing a hand over her forehead.  Something about the moment triggers a twinge of homesickness, and he doesn’t know why.

“You know what?”  Audrey’s voice cuts in, “I know what you can do for me.  Welcome back to the FBI, Matt Parkman, you’re now my official expert on the Specials.”

 

> With Molly in the hospital, Matt and Mohinder set out to find Maury Parkman, based on Molly’s last conscious act.  They don’t speak to one another on the flight, both furious with themselves and with each other for what’s happened to their daughter.
> 
> When they actually confront the man, Mohinder is filled with a revulsion and disdain he usually reserves for insects.  To think, both Molly and Matt were so haunted by this little cockroach of a man that they cringed at the very thought of him…
> 
> When he walks through a doorway in Maury’s vulgar little flat to find himself back in his own home, he begins to understand.   _He’s suddenly, sickeningly pinned to the ceiling, battered and bruised from a hundred invisible, ungentle hands and made to watch as Sylar and his own father chat amiably over tea._
> 
> _Sylar talks about being a watchmaker’s son, and the desire to be more… His father laughs, calls the murderer “Gabriel,” and tells him about his own son back in India._
> 
> _“Mohinder?”  Sylar asks, sipping from a blue mug that Molly’s used a hundred times.  “Like your lizard, there?”_
> 
> _Chandra chuckles, “Yes, I missed having someone to talk to; it seemed the most suitable name.  But, now that I’ve found you, I anticipate better conversation.”  Sylar smiles into his tea as Mohinder’s blood drip-drip-drips onto the table between them, unnoticed._
> 
> _Mohinder manages to move one arm, trying to reach down to his father’s shoulder, make him see…_
> 
> A hand grasps his, and he’s being hauled upward, to his feet from the floor.  Mohinder staggers with disorientation, but he recognizes Matt, a grim set to the other man’s jaw.  Then he sees the body at their feet, a neat hole between the eyes.
> 
> “You… you shot your father,” he gasps.  Matt looks down at the blood pooling at their feet and shrugs, his forehead knitted into lines.
> 
> “Yeah, well, he’s not my family anymore,” Matt says quietly.  “And he was fucking with the people who  _are_. Now let me call this in and let’s fix the scene.”

 

A month later, another agency somehow gets wind of Matt’s abilities and absconds with him suddenly one day.  It’s startling to have the door to his office opened without a knock and stern-suited men file in, but they ask politely, if curtly, enough that he knows he’s not being going to be detained.  A quick surface scan of their thoughts confirm it, and they take him to see a familiar face.

“Bennet?”  Matt says, stunned.  “Since when do you work for Homeland Security?”

The other man cracks a grim smile.  “Since they got wind of my former employers and nationalized their work.  Don’t worry, this won’t be a repeat of the last time I had you brought in.”

“I know that,” Matt says brusquely.  “And stop thinking in Chinese, it’s distracting.”

“Japanese, not Chinese,” Bennet replies.  “And as you could conceivably pick up national secrets from my brain, you’ll just have to dial back your abilities or deal with the headache.”  He gestures to the seat across from him at the desk. “Please, sit.”

Matt scowls, but complies.

“My former occupation, as you no doubt have  _guessed_ , was devoted to identifying Specials and detaining those we deemed an unacceptable risk to the population at large.  We worked covertly, hoping to keep the existence of enhanced abilities a secret until we had developed an acceptable alternative to the threat they posed.”

“What kind of an alternative?”  Matt asks.

“That wasn’t, ah, my department, Agent Parkman.”  Bennet gives him another Cheshire-cat smile.  “But I’m sure various techniques were explored by the numerous scientific staff I ran into at Company picnics.”  Matt can’t tell if he’s kidding, and suppresses the urge to laugh and wince simultaneously at the prospect of a dozen men like Bennet chatting over potato salad and unevenly-grilled hotdogs while their bland little cover families mingled.  “I’m assuming that those branches of the Company were absorbed into other government agencies.”

“While the field operatives are all in Homeland Security?”

“As far as I’ve been able to tell, yes.  But we were a small underground operation.  Even with the considerable private funding we received, we could only be so active before we caught the attention of  _significant_  members of the government.”  Meaning  _not_  Agent Hanson; Matt bristles.  “You’d be surprised at how much of our resources went into maintaining our secrecy.”

Matt rolls his eyes, and leans forward, tired of all the backhanded double-talk.  “Good for you.  But now everyone knows about us Specials, and your little underground catch-and-release games have been co-opted by Uncle Sam.  Why is any of that my business, if you didn’t bring me here to ship me off to Gitmo?”

 “Because our operation is no longer sufficient to meet the demands placed upon the government in wake of public knowledge of the Specials.”  It takes every ounce of Matt’s remaining patience to keep himself from launching across the desk and wiping the smirk off Bennet’s face this time.  It also takes a full minute for Matt to figure out exactly what Bennet just  _said_.

“So… you’re  _recruiting_  me?”

“More than that, Agent Parkman.  We’ve been keeping tabs on your progress, and would like to offer you a promotion. And a raise.”  Something sparks in Bennet’s eyes.  “Really, a family man such as yourself should get more than just government consultation fees.”

Matt leans back in his chair and stares out the window.  After a long moment, he asks, distractedly, “What would I be doing?”

In the end, it’s quite simple.  They give him a team of Specials, a list of names to investigate, and a fair amount of latitude to act when necessary.  Most of the names are shady characters, people who’d discovered their abilities and put them to use in evading the letter of the law.  Matt found a kind of freedom in being able to catch criminals that slipped away from traditional justice, especially as there seemed to be no way to draft legislation that covered the multitude of sins that shady Specials came up with.

The best part is that he occasionally gets slow weeks, where he just has to check his email for updates or make a few phone calls to field operatives.  It’s not very often, but he spends every minute with Janice, every frequent-flyer mile in going home to California.  It’s shocking how big she gets while he’s away, and he wastes no time in telling her she’s beautiful, and radiant, and how much he missed her – not just because he knows she needs to hear it, but because it’s all true.

They baby-proof the house and he gets a serious gun safe for their closet so they don’t ever have to worry.  He paints the nursery in pale green and lavender, Easter colors in wide vertical stripes.  She laughs when he’s done because he gets paint in his hair, and they make out wonderfully, awkwardly in the tiny bathroom when she tries to help him get it out.  The sex is fun and strange and exhilarating like they’re teenagers again, because her body is changing and new to both of them, and he’s never home long enough to get used to its new shape.  Their marriage is better than it’s ever been, and he leaves her more and more reluctantly each time.

The baby is born while he’s in Nevada hunting down a super-hacker, and he drops the trail like it’s cold when he finds out, giving the case to another field team in the area and passing around cigars to his own guys before driving all night to get home.  Bennet calls him on the way to congratulate him, but there’s something strange and sad in his voice when he says it that makes Matt wish he could read minds over long distances.

Matt forgets all about it when he sees his exit coming up, and hangs up on Bennet with an exultant good-bye.

When he sees her, Janice’s first words are whispery with exhaustion and drugs.  “You missed all the excitement.”  She sounds a little sad, but Matt chalks it up to everything she’s just been through.  He carefully dodges the thought of post-partum depression, because he doesn’t know how long he’ll get to stay with her before getting another call from his tracking techs.

His mother-in-law shoos him out of the room so Janice can rest, and shows him the nursery.  Matt Jr. is tiny and pink and squalling with all the air his tiny lungs can hold.  His thoughts are… indescribable, and amazing, and a jumble of raw sensory input that has Matt groping for a chair.

He has a headache, and he’s tired, and his mother-in-law is faintly disapproving of his constant absences, but it’s still the best day of Matt’s life.

 

> Matt’s passed his detective’s test with flying colors, swearing up and down that he only used his powers during the practical, but  _not_  the written.  After all, he’d be using his powers during tense situations in the field, right?
> 
> He takes the morning shifts, and Mohinder drives nights, and there’s a gap between the two where they trade ‘bad drunk’ stories and Molly tells them about her day. 
> 
> It’s almost normal, except when it isn’t.
> 
> Once, Matt came home to find Mohinder having a quiet argument with two bland men in gray suits with matching smiles that don’t reach their eyes.  Molly’s door is closed, and the  _High School Musical_  soundtrack is loud enough to obscure the conversation.  A quick scan of the three men’s minds is enough for Matt to get caught up.
> 
> “No,” he says immediately.  “Like  _hell_  Mohinder is working for you Company bastards.  Now get the fuck out before I accidentally injure the guys breaking into my house.”  His voice is quiet and even, almost pleasant, but he adds a bit of  _push_  with his mind and they leave without incident, their card untouched on the kitchen table.
> 
> Another time, he walks in on Mohinder with his head cradled in his hands and Molly’s arms wrapped around him.  The remnants of their cordless phone lie shattered by a dent in the wall, and Mohinder’s laptop has been shoved halfway across his desk, the orderly stacks of research knocked to the floor.  Matt gives Molly a look. She bites her lip, nods, and goes to get the broom and dustpan.
> 
> “They keep disappearing.  I think it’s Sylar,” Mohinder says without looking up.  Matt puts his palm on Mohinder’s back and tries to broadcast reassurance.  “I  _know_  what you’re trying to do, Matt.  Stop it.”
> 
> “If I say it out loud, you won’t believe me,” Matt says, leaving his hand where it is.  He can feel Mohinder’s shuddering breaths where his fingers splay across the other man’s ribcage.  “But I’ll say it anyway: we’re both here, we can keep Molly safe.  We’ve always kept her safe, we always will.”  He lets the bone-deep truth of his words, his confidence, seep through his hand and into Mohinder’s spine, and he feels the muscles unknot slowly, the tension drain.
> 
> Mohinder straightens, glances at him with a strange look that Matt can’t decipher before it’s gone.  Molly comes back with the broom and dustpan, and they clean up the mess.
> 
> Another time: Matt walks in, shuts the door, and feels the barrel of a gun pressed against the side of his neck. Bennet’s behind the door.
> 
> Mohinder’s in the kitchen, radiating fury and frustration.  “I  _told_  you, I’m not working for the Company!”
> 
> “They  _let you keep Molly!_   Why on  _earth_  would they do that, if they weren’t getting something equally valuable?”  Bennet continues the argument as if Matt isn’t even there.  Matt pushes  _out_  with his mind, and Bennet cocks the gun.  “Don’t you try anything, Parkman, I can shoot faster than you can think.”
> 
> “Where is Molly?”  Matt asks Mohinder.
> 
> “Not here,” Mohinder replies cautiously, but his mind broadcasts the full answer.  Mohinder missed picking her up, and one of the moms called; he sent her to a friend’s house rather than have her home for this. Matt nods.
> 
> “He isn’t working for the Company,” Matt says to Bennet. “They came, and we showed them the door.”
> 
> “Then why are you looking for my family?  Why are you tracking down people with abilities?”  Bennet’s voice is a determined growl from between his teeth.
> 
> “I’m just trying to update my father’s research!  It’s my  _own_  project, it’s in the interests of science – and history – to document this phenomenon!  I keep everything secure, I don’t-“  Mohinder throws up his hands in frustration and crashes them down to the counter.
> 
> “He’s telling the truth, Bennet,” Matt says into the silence.  “Do you really think he’d still be driving a  _taxi_  if the Company had a lab for him somewhere?”
> 
> Another long pause.  Then the click of a hammer being safely released.
> 
> “All right.  But so help me, if  _anything_  happens to my little girl because of you, I will do the same to yours.”
> 
> He leaves a phone number – in case of emergencies  _only_ , but it’s a gesture of trust that keeps Matt from reaching out and turning Bennet into a drooling moron that occasionally hums Hannah Montana songs.

 

When the Linderman Act is proposed – under a different name, at first, and it starts as an addendum to the Homeland Security Act – Mohinder is busy in his lab, working with a small but efficient staff. 

He doesn’t run as many tests himself as he did before, and he finds he can spend more time with Molly at home.  He soothes her through her nightmares, and endures tiresome conferences with teachers who think she – and likely he, too – needs a feminine influence in her life.  At least, they couldn’t question his immigration status, nor his unusual adoption of Molly – the government seemed so much easier to work with than he’d anticipated, and both sets of paperwork had been processed with almost unseemly haste.

A few months later, things happen in quick succession.  First, they streamline one of the screening tests they use on the blood samples that get delivered to their lab.  They pare it down to a litmus test, essentially, and churn out the test strips in bulk.  “Stockpiling in case of the worst possible future,” Mohinder says one day, staring at the ream of ordinary-looking filter paper and thinking of the last chapter of his formal proposal to Nathan.  “But still a possibility.” 

Shortly after this, they get the kind of funding that means  _national_  budget approval.  Before, he’d scrabbled for enough positively-identified blood to run all the tests he’d needed.  Now, he has volunteers who come in and can actually demonstrate their abilities in a controlled environment.  He’s kept so busy that it’s a relief when Molly’s nightmares disappear abruptly.

“Daddy,” he hears from his office one day as he was finishing up a rundown with his new secretary (impolite to eavesdrop, but he didn’t intend it, truly), “I don’t know about all this…”

“Now, sweetie, ever since the government nationalized the Company’s work, it’s all the more important to make a good impression.  Voluntary compliance with the program will be noted, I can assure you…”  The man’s voice cuts off when Mohinder enters the room.

He sees that the speakers are, respectively, a very smartly-dressed young blonde girl and a balding, bespectacled gentleman in a rumpled gray suit.

“Hi, I’m Bob,” the other man says, holding out his hand, which Mohinder shakes absently, already wondering which one of them had powers and how they manifested.  “And this is my daughter, Elle.”

The girl smiles too brightly and holds onto Mohinder’s hand a bit too long, sliding her nails along the inside of his wrist as she pulls her hand away.  Mohinder blinks rapidly, his train of thought derailed momentarily by the static shock that jolts him when she disengages.

“It’s, ah, nice to meet you both,” he says when he recovers.  He moves to sit behind his desk and grabs paper, a pen. “So tell me, which of you are Special?”

“Both,” Bob replies with a small smile.  He pulls two substantial file folders from his briefcase, and sets them on the desk, explaining, “The Company keeps extensive records on all its employees.”

Mohinder smiles eagerly at the prospect of  _years_  of research already done for him.  “I’m sure that will come in handy, thank you.”

Bob and Elle sit up a little straighter.  Their smiles look almost…hopeful?

Mohinder dismisses this as an unfounded assumption, and flips through their files briefly before asking the relevant questions.

 

> Mohinder’s just about to get to bed at 6:30 in the morning after an hour cleaning unmentionable biohazards out of his taxi’s backseat when someone pounds at their door.  Matt’s out of bed, gun in hand, before Mohinder even unlocks the first bolt.
> 
> It’s Claire Bennet, dripping wet with rain and her eyes hollowed out with exhaustion and something  _worse_.  “I couldn’t think of where else to go,” she says, voice flat.  “I drove all night.  Dad had your address in his wallet.”  Mohinder catches her when she staggers, guides her to the nearest chair.
> 
> “Where is he?” Matt asks, checking the hall and peering through the curtains to see if she’s been followed.
> 
> “Dead,” she says, staring blankly ahead.  Blood runs in rivulets from the matted tangle of her hair.
> 
> It takes a cup of tea, a shower, and a good eight hours of sleep on their couch before she says anything more.
> 
> Noah Bennet went after the new head of the Company – someone named Bishop – when they got too close, shot him point-blank during a showdown somewhere in California.  Bishop’s daughter, Elle, electrocuted Noah.
> 
> Claire went after Elle.  The rest of the Bennets are in hiding, and Claire is staying away to keep them safe.
> 
> “I wanted to tell you,” she says.  “I thought you should know.  The Company is still after me - I should go.  But my dad is dead, and so are the Bishops.  Someone else is in charge now, I don’t know who.  I thought you should know.”
> 
> She’s gone before Molly gets home from school.
> 
> It occurs to Mohinder, later, that there was another way, a way Noah could have been saved and this whole thing averted.  But there’s nothing he can do for it now.

 

Matt doesn’t remember much about the explosion in Kirby Plaza.  When the head office sends down a file containing ‘new evidence’ of the scene, implicating  _Peter Petrelli_  as the perp, and Hiro Nakamura as ‘aiding a known fugitive,’ Matt feels a sinking feeling in his gut.  It doesn’t  _seem_  right, but it adds up.

The first team he sends out gets cornered in an industrial power plant in Chicago.  Next thing he knows, a ten-block radius has been incinerated and half the city is blacked out.

The sinking feeling deepens.  He puts both names out on all department channels, hoping for at least a  _visit_  from either man, protesting their innocence.  He’d gladly let Hiro take him back to relive the Event if it meant knowing what _really_  happened.  Neither come, and reports filter in of both men being seen in the DC area, just prior to several more – increasingly public – displays of violence.

Peter Petrelli and Hiro Nakamura are publicly outed as terrorists and fugitives.  Congressman Petrelli makes the announcement himself, somehow transforming a career-breaking confession of family tragedy into an act of martyrdom.  It’s a brilliant move, and pundits are starting to mention his name regarding the upcoming Presidential election.

After Nathan’s press conference, there aren’t any more attacks in D.C.  Matt wants to think that Peter’s been reformed by his brother’s public censure, but that’s not how things ever turn out, is it?

When Peter and Hiro break into Moab Federal Penitentiary, Matt’s there with his people. Unfortunately, it’s not enough; they escape, with several high-powered prisoners in tow.

The world is going  _insane_.  Matt thinks he’s getting an ulcer.

 

> The first reported case of the Shanti Virus occurs on March 20th, 2007, although it isn’t shown on the news at the time.  Newscasters simply didn’t take any note of the isolated incident – it was only later that the significance of a man in New York dying of an unknown virus would take on monumental significance.
> 
> Matt will remember this date for a long time, though, for several reasons:
> 
> One, it’s the day he regains consciousness to find himself cuffed to the radiator, his ribs bruised from a kick (which he can’t remember) and one eye swelling shut from falling down towards the doorknob (which is the last thing he  _does_  remember).   _Not a good plan, Parkman_ , he tells himself, wondering why on earth he bothered to wake up in the first place.
> 
> But he’s immediately answered by the sight of Mohinder, equally battered-looking, with Sylar and a strange woman both out cold on the floor.  Molly’s right beside Mohinder, holding a skillet.
> 
> Matt laughs until his bruised ribs make him stop.
> 
> The second reason he’ll remember this day is because, after Molly hugs him and proudly proclaims that she got to  _save them back, finally_ , Mohinder unlocks the handcuffs and helps Matt to his feet.
> 
> “Dude, I know it sounds gay, but I could totally kiss you right now for saving my butt,” Matt says, when he’s standing. 
> 
> Mohinder smiles his genuinely delighted smile, the one that starts in one corner of his mouth and quirks an eyebrow upward before turning into blinding brilliance.  Matt catches a fleeting thought as it surfaces: … _I’d let him, if he honestly wanted to…_
> 
>  He knows his face is doing that fish-out-of-water thing that Molly has pointed out as a total giveaway.  “Wait, _seriously_?”  Matt says, before he can consider all the ramifications of even  _hearing_  that thought, let alone any possible response to it.  Then Mohinder  _does_  kiss him, and Matt has to rewrite his whole definition of hot, because apparently it includes skinny Indian dudes and split lips screaming in pain.
> 
> When his brain starts working again, Matt calls his friends in blue to take the trussed-up bad guys off in ambulances.  Apparently, an eleven-year-old girl with a frying pan and a geneticist with a firearm (its safety still  _on_ , mind you), can do a fair amount of damage to two super-powered villains.
> 
> Mohinder lets Matt order vegetable pizza, and they both let Molly pick the movie.  They pretend not to act too grossed out by Mohinder’s soy ice cream, and douse it in real, honest-to-god Hershey’s chocolate syrup instead of the sugar-free stuff while Mohinder pretends he doesn’t see them.
> 
> And Molly pretends she doesn’t see them kissing again in the hallway after they put her to bed.

 

It‘s a total surprise, and none at all, when Matt comes home to find divorce papers beneath a long, hand-written letter.

He reads that Janice loved him more the way he was now, happy and fulfilling his dream, but it took him away from her and their son, and she couldn’t pretend that they had a real family together when he was several states, time zones, continents away all the time.  They seemed to either have a relationship without love, or love without a relationship, and she couldn’t ask him to give up his career happiness without some kind of guarantee otherwise.  And she couldn’t give him a guarantee.

Matt understands, and it kills him a little inside.  He buries himself in his work, and soon finds himself promoted to head of the New York division, where he works closely with local legislators and moneymen to define policy.  He starts hanging out with his Congressman for a beer and a game every other weekend or so, and his empty apartment eventually gets a little easier to face.

His ingrained cop instincts are at a total loss when dealing with bureaucracy, though, and he just sticks to what he knows.  Nathan helps out with the politi-speak and tips him off on back-door deals just when a particular issue or district is giving him problems.  Between the insider tips and his own powers, he earns a reputation for dogged determination bordering on ruthless focus.

Matt gives his secretary a raise every time he overhears her thinking about a job with less paperwork.  He keeps sending money to Janice, extra if he hasn’t called that month or if he realizes he’s not paying enough attention to all the details of how his marriage is getting dismantled.

Six months after the divorce is finalized, Nathan Petrelli is elected as the next President of the United States.  It’s not a total surprise, after the bipartisan support he garnered while in Congress, lobbying for the Linderman Act.  The very fact that he managed to pass it with that name attached shows how powerful he’s become.    His public renunciation of Peter ‘s terrorist activities didn’t hurt, either.

The president-elect announces his intended Cabinet a full month before he’s sworn in, promoting a friend – “…with a long history of doing what is right, of serving the people within the police force and other federal offices…” – to head of Homeland Security. 

Matt attends the post-announcement party alone, and drinks more heavily than he’d planned, because he keeps overhearing pitying thoughts about his divorce, and besides that, Washington secrets are ones he usually doesn’t want to hear when he’s trying to  _celebrate_ , goddammit.  There are a lot of people he knows professionally, and even more he knows from watching CNN during his bouts of insomnia.  He does what he can to seem charming, and politically savvy, and it’s all just conjuring tricks with mind-reading (without letting people in on the trick, or that it  _is_  a trick, really) until his fourth or fifth scotch, when he gives up and finds a convenient way out of the main party room.

He winds up in a cloakroom, surrounded by coats that cost more than his  _car_ , but it’s quiet in here and even thoughts seem muffled by all the fur and boiled-wool surrounding him.  Plus, it’s nice and dim, and bigger than pretty much his whole apartment back in New York, so he doesn’t feel cramped.  He’s not going to question why there’s a couch at the back, perfectly matched to the rug and the wallpaper like it’s supposed to be there, but he’s grateful for the decorating lunacy that put it there.

Matt’s starting to regret not bringing booze in with him, when the door opens and someone stumbles in.

“My apologies, I wasn’t aware this… closet… was occupied,” the other man says, his familiar accent blurred by alcohol. Apparently all languages turn into the same thing when you’re coasting by on three times the legal limit.  Matt sees the bottle in the geneticist’s hand and almost rediscovers religion.

“No, no, you’re welcome so long as you share,” Matt says, gesturing, and the other man closes the door and comes over to join him on the couch.  He tries to use the coats as support on his way, so Matt gets some entertainment in watching the other man stagger a bit.  For that and the liquor, he’s even welcome to part of the couch.  Matt swings his feet to the floor and regrets the abrupt movement.

Mohinder sits, missing the couch, and winds up on the floor with the boneless grace of a cat.  Like he did it on _purpose_.  They drink to each other’s health, and to their careers, and to their poor planning in going stag to someplace where getting drunk and hitting on strangers would cause international incidents.  Or, at least, highly embarrassing headlines.

Precisely how this ends with Mohinder’s palms slipping upwards along Matt’s inner thighs so that his nimble fingers can open the fly of Matt’s slacks and his mouth can breathe heatedly on Matt’s cock is unclear.  But after that leap in drunken logic, Matt is not surprised to find Mohinder crawling up onto the couch to pin him against the couch and kiss him with sloppy, drunken fervor.

Yeah, he’s making out with a dude, which Matt hasn’t done before.  But on the other hand, it’s not as if he hasn’t considered it.  He used to discard the idea because he figured he’d only get the courage if (a) they were both drunk ( _check_ ), (b) the guy dug him ( _unlikely, but check_ ), and (c) there were no way of it ruining things between him and Janice ( _oho, that’s a check_ ).

Mohinder pulls their shirts up, pushes their slacks down, and they just grind against each other with roving, greedy hands and open-mouthed, panting kisses.  Matt wonders what it would be like to fuck another man, and the imagined view of Mohinder naked above him, pushing back and down around his cock, stroking himself with one hand, makes him groan and thrust up hard until his vision whites out.

Mohinder’s still moving against him, his voice a stutter-stop of words that Matt isn’t sure are all English.  His mind conjures a different scene, a familiar room that Matt thinks he’s seen on TV. 

… _The Oval Office?_   Matt chuckles when he recognizes the setting, and Mohinder pulls away, breathing heavily and looking confused.  Matt grins reassuringly and pulls Mohinder back to him for a deep, searching kiss.  Mohinder’s eyelids flutter shut. 

 _Still got it_ , Matt thinks, wrapping his hand around Mohinder’s dick and listening in to the other man’s thoughts.  It doesn’t actually surprise him that Mohinder fantasizes about being bent over the desk in the Oval Office and fucked raw by someone who will soon be the most powerful man in the world.

It’s just kind of disappointing to hear a memory-echo of Nathan’s voice  _“…don’t care how, I just want to be sure of his loyalties.  Can you do that, Mohinder?”_

 

> Matt asks Jacobs about Sylar over coffee a few days later.  The other detective chuckles grimly.  “Guy died in the ICU that night.  Some bug he picked up down south, they think.”  It’s almost a relief, because Matt’s not sure if there will ever be a cell that can hold someone like Sylar.  “We called INS.  They’re going to deport his accomplice soon as she gets released from the hospital, but she hasn’t regained consciousness.”
> 
> “That’s good to know.  Thanks for your help, by the way.”  Matt claps him on the shoulder and turns to go.  On the way out the door, a familiar face flashes on the screen of the small TV they keep in the break room.  He turns up the volume.
> 
> “… former Congressman-elect, Nathan Petrelli.  No word on what illness caused his collapse during yesterday’s press conference, but he is known to be in critical condition.”  A replay of the press conference, Nathan grim and determined, saying, “-not afraid to tell you the truth, especially now that it could save millions of lives.” And then he starts toppling sideways, face flushed from more than the heat of the lights trained on him.  Chaos as every reporter scrambles for the best shot, but the image freezes on a clear frame of Nathan cradled in his brother’s arms, his mother standing above them waving away the reporters like a lioness protecting her cubs.
> 
> Matt rushes out and calls home from his desk, ignoring everyone who approaches.  He gets a busy signal for ten minutes before he thinks of trying Mohinder’s cell phone.
> 
> “Matt?”  Molly answers, cautiously.
> 
> “Molly! Molly, doll, get me Mohinder, will you?”  He tries to keep the panic from his voice, because he really doesn’t know anything for sure.
> 
> “He’s a little busy.  He’s been on the phone  _all morning_.”
> 
> That’s all the confirmation Matt needs.  He closes his eyes like he’s been punched in the gut.  “Just tell him it’s me, Moll,” he says gently, already making plans.

 

Bob and Elle turn out to be amazingly forthcoming about their abilities – and having worked for the Company for so long, they also tell Mohinder about  _other_  Specials, some of whom are currently fugitives.  He calls Matt Parkman’s office to pass on the information.  Their conversation – the first since their drunken encounter – starts out halting, awkward, but Matt readily agrees to come out to Mohinder’s facility to talk to the Bishops personally.

Matt, of course, picks the  _worst_  day to come in.  But, while his work is consuming, Mohinder will never,  _ever_  go back on a promise he made Molly.

So, Matt’s in his office, reviewing what intel Mohinder already has, when Molly comes rushing in with a bouquet she’s assembled from pipe cleaners, filter paper, and food coloring (from home), bundled in an Erlenmeyer flask.  She beams even brighter when she sees Matt.

“Officer Parkman!” Molly shouts gleefully, and Matt’s on his feet in an instant, picking her up and spinning her around in the air. 

“Molly!  What are you doing here?”  Parkman’s suddenly a different man, boyish and grinning, and Mohinder wishes he’s called the man sooner, even if it weren’t for work.

“It’s ‘Take your Daughter to Work’ Day!  Mohinder promised I could do science stuff!”  She brandishes her bouquet proudly.

“I forgot!  Mohinder’s been taking care of you!”  He sets her on the ground.  “That’s very pretty, you know.”  His voice lowers to a conspiratorial stage-whisper.  “How’s he doing so far?”

She grins over at Mohinder.  “He’s doing all right.  He doesn’t see why I need a Nintendo Wii, though, even though I _told_  him there are some educational games and that it would improve my hand-eye coordination.”

Mohinder rolls his eyes.  “All right, don’t you two gang up on me, now.  Especially since Matt and I have  _work_  to be doing.”  She rolls her eyes right back.  “But first, may I have your flowers?  I’ve got a bare spot on my desk right here that needs a little something.”  She carefully sets the flask where he points and arranges the flowers long enough to let him know she’ll go when she’s good and ready,  _thank you_.

Mohinder laughs when she goes, and Matt shares his grin.  “Getting to be quite a handful,” Mohinder comments warmly.  “But worth every minute.”

Something sad flits across Matt’s face for a second, and he makes a sudden switch back to his professional mode, asking if he can talk to the Bishops alone for a bit.

After that abrupt cutoff, Mohinder’s surprised to find Matt waiting out front when he and Molly leave for the day.  He invites them out for pizza and ice cream, and it would have been a little unnerving if Matt’s presence weren’t somehow _familiar_  and  _safe_.  In fact, it’s  _more_  unnerving because of how well he does fit into their lives, every time he comes into town – and it seems he’s ‘in town’ on business more often than he really needs to be.

When Molly’s eyes light up every time Parkman shows up on their doorstep, or Matt’s curling protectively around him in the middle of the night, Mohinder can’t really bring himself to care.

 

> Peter called Mohinder as soon as it was confirmed: the virus targeted people with abilities, and was highly transmissible and inevitably fatal.  Mrs. Petrelli was already showing symptoms.  Mohinder immediately called the rest of the people in his database to warn them.
> 
> Matt made  _one_  phone call.
> 
> “Hello?”  She sounds harried. 
> 
> “Janice.  Oh, thank god you’re home.  Janice, I need you to take Matt Jr. to your aunt’s place, the one in Montana.”
> 
> “Matt? What?”  He can hear his son screaming in the background.
> 
> “Janice, please, the Congressman who passed out – he’s got abilities.  He’s sick with something that targets _us_.  Just us.  You’ll be fine, but I’m worried about our son.”
> 
> “Oh, my god.  Are you  _sure_?”
> 
> “Yes.  Can you just – please?”
> 
> “I’ve got…”  She sighs.  “I already called off because he’s come down with something – Jesus, Matt, do you think it’s-“
> 
> “I don’t think so, it’s only just hit New York and-“ Mohinder’s gesturing to him and drawing frantic circles on a map, “-and Houston, and Columbus, nothing by you guys yet, but it’s spreading fast.”
> 
> “All right, okay.  I’ll leave as soon as I can.  Do you – do you want me to call when I get there?”
> 
> “Yes, please,  _yes_.”  He pauses.  “Is it okay if I come, if I bring Molly and Mohinder?  He’s a doctor, he might be able to help, and I don’t want Molly…”  He trails off again, suddenly uncertain.  He thinks about leaving Molly and Mohinder with his son and ex-wife, while he comes back to New York to help the NYPD keep the peace.
> 
> “Yes,” she says finally, her voice far away.  “Yes, you’re still  _family_ , Matt.”
> 
> He realizes he  _can’t_  come back.

 

It would be perfect, really.  If only there weren’t two problems – aside from the increasing moral issues of their respective jobs – that keep cropping up.

One, Mohinder kind of has  _a thing_  with the President.  He doesn’t think about it more than he has to, and he tries not to define it as more than a ‘thing,’ but it’s always there, in the back of his mind.  It boils down to this: every time he hears Nathan’s voice, every time he’s in the man’s  _presence_ , it’s like he’s hypnotized, drugged, senseless and helpless.

There’s the sex, sure, but Mohinder keeps making  _promises_.  About work, about his  _life_ , and he doesn’t always remember even  _agreeing_  to them until he’s already made good on them.

Then there’s Matt’s  _other_  family – his ex-wife and his son.  Which, granted, are part-and-parcel with Parkman, like how he  _also_  happens to run the security of the _whole country_ , but Matt’s been getting more fidgety about Janice and Matt Jr.

Mohinder overhears a phone conversation he probably oughtn’t one morning when Matt doesn’t know he’s awake:

“-to stop  _saying_  shit like this.  I can’t  _believe_ -“

“-I could arrest you  _right now_  for that kind of talk.  Do you  _really_  want to keep pushing me on this?”

“-you what?  If you take your kid off the radar, that’s a red flag in my system!  I’ll have to-”

“…”

“…”

“Shit.   _Fine_.  Send over the intel.  But I’m  _not_  fucking making any promises, do you  _hear_  me, Bennet?  If you’re giving me the runaround, I  _can’t_  protect your family.”

The contrast between both sides of Matt’s life – and Mohinder’s, by association – hits home, and Mohinder has a hard time not pulling Matt back into bed and calling them both in sick.  But the problem is, of course, that they couldn’t hide forever, even if they tried.

Matt’s gone for a while, after that.  Mohinder starts to worry; not just about Matt, but about  _everything_. 

The Haitian mentions once, off-handedly, that he’s never met the President.  Mohinder is strangely haunted by the casual statement, especially considering that having the Haitian around would surely be an  _excellent_  security precaution to take with so many rogue Specials on the loose.

He falls apart, a little, stops shaving.  Molly keeps giving him apprehensive glances whenever he comes home too late from work or when he changes the channel too quickly every time Specials come up in the news.

So when Hiro shows up in his apartment one day after Mohinder picks Molly up from school, he’s at wits end.

“Doctor Suresh, don’t be alarmed.”  Hiro’s English is much better than it used to be.  With his black clothes and long hair tied back, he’s almost a different person.  “I’m not here to hurt you.  I’m here to save Molly.”

Later, he won’t believe that he gave in so easily.  With Molly gone, he doesn’t have much left.  When Matt finds out, he loses the rest.  Except his work.  And whatever it is he has with Nathan.

It’s not much.  It’s all he has.

 

> They’re halfway across the country in Mohinder’s cab before they get the news that the virus has mutated and jumped to the non-powered population.  They push their truck-stop diner food around on their plates a little, their appetites gone.  Mohinder scrubs his palm across his face, weary from the unending stream of phone calls and bad news.  “It was only a matter of time, really,” he says.
> 
> Molly’s been quiet, sleeping or playing her DS or flipping listlessly through the textbooks that Matt grabbed before he left.  He’s not really sure why, but he wanted some sense of normalcy – some reassurance that after this is all over, they can return to their lives.
> 
> He’s driving through South Dakota when he realizes he’s flushed.  It might just be the sun beating down on him through the window, but his vision’s blurring and he’s only been driving for an hour.
> 
> He pulls over at a state park rest stop.
> 
> Mohinder jostles awake, but Molly’s still out cold, so she can’t see him cry.  He leaves the car, just in case, and Mohinder trails after, sleepy and confused.
> 
> “Matt? Matt, what’s wrong?”
> 
> “Check me,” Matt says, grabbing Mohinder’s hand and pressing it to his forehead.  The air is crisp and cool, and he’s feeling chilled from the sweat that’s soaked into his shirt.
> 
> “Oh, my god.”  Mohinder takes his pulse, gets a thermometer from the car.
> 
> Molly’s woken up, and Matt can see her worried face through the window.  “Shit,  _shit!_ ” he says, turning away from her.
> 
> “You must have gotten it from that gas station outside Chicago.  I  _told_  you it would be dangerous passing that close to another urban-“
> 
> “Who the fuck  _cares_ , Mohinder!  We’re in the middle of fucking  _nowhere_ , I’m sick, and Molly might get sick next!  What the hell do we do now?”  He keeps his voice low, but he’s practically spitting sparks into the air in his frustration.
> 
> “We get Molly to the nearest hospital, just in case.  They’ll have better facilities to take care of her there.  If I drive her, then we can keep the risk of exposure to a minimum.”  Matt wants to touch Mohinder, hold him close, kiss him before one or both or all of them die out in fucking South Dakota.  But.  He doesn’t want the virus to jump to Mohinder, if it hasn’t already.
> 
> “That won’t be necessary,” a familiar voice says behind them.  Matt turns around so fast he gets dizzy, collapses onto a park bench.
> 
> “Hiro!”  Molly shouts from the car, waving out the open window.
> 
> “You have impeccable timing,” Mohinder says with relief.  “Are you sick?  Can you take Molly to a hospital?”
> 
> “I can, but that’s not why I’m here.  I need Molly so I can find Claire Bennet or Adam Monroe.  They may hold the cure for the plague.”  Hiro’s English has gotten better.
> 
> “Wait, but what if she gets sick?  I need to be there!”  Mohinder insists.
> 
> “No, you are most likely already infected, according to the timeline.”  Mohinder sits down next to Matt like the wind’s been knocked out of him.  Matt throws caution to the wind and pulls Mohinder close while giving Hiro the fiercest glare he can muster while his eyes aren’t focusing properly.
> 
> “Take her somewhere safe, where she’ll be okay, or I swear to god, Hiro Nakamura, I will haunt you until the day you die.”
> 
> Hiro bows formally, and walks away to the car.  Matt turns away and presses his forehead against Mohinder’s so that they can’t see anything but each other.  They hear Molly sob, once, before it’s cut off, and she’s gone.
> 
> They sit that way for hours before they make their way back to the car.  Mohinder gets behind the wheel and just starts driving.  It doesn’t matter what direction.
> 
> Matt calls Janice to tell her they won’t make it to her aunt’s house.

 

The next time Mohinder sees Matt Parkman, it ends with them locked in a room with the world breaking apart outside. Everything’s been falling apart for a while, but now there are explosions, and lightning, and dead bodies everywhere. The President – who’s not Nathan, but  _Sylar_  – is fighting Peter Petrelli, who may have blown up Kirby center but isn’t a terrorist.  The past-Hiro has disappeared, with the intent to fix everything before it happens.

Matt got thrown  _through_  the door, and Mohinder’s damn near unconscious himself. The battle’s moved further down the hall, but Mohinder looks at the damage around them and finds bleak amusement there.   _Both fire_ and _ice, ending the world_ , he thinks.

Matt’s head is in Mohinder’s lap.  He’s not even sure if Matt’s still breathing, but his fingers find Matt’s pulse and it’s fluttering weakly.  Matt’s hand comes up and grips Mohinder’s wrist, slides down to twine their fingers together, blood-slick.

“Sorry,” Matt rasps.  Mohinder can’t find the breath to speak for a moment, so he shakes his head.  The Haitian’s dead eyes stare at them.

“Not your fault.”

“Not  _just_  my fault, but I – helped.”  Matt sounds like he’s choking.  Mohinder realizes that the other man is laughing. “I  _tried_  to help.  Didn’t – didn’t do so well.”

“If you’re guilty, then so am I.”

The door rattles again on its weakened hinges.  The end is drawing near.

 

> They run out of gas somewhere in Wyoming.  The gas station they’d spotted when the road started winding down into the valley turns out to be abandoned, pumps hollowed out and the windows grimy and spray-painted where the boards have fallen away.  There’s a storm coming, so they don’t get signal on their phones.  They don’t know who to call, anyway.
> 
> Mohinder moves their bedding into the storage room of the gas station, figuring it’ll be warmer there and more comfortable than the taxi.  Besides, that way he can keep an eye on Matt, who’s convulsing in fits from the chills, and bring him water if he needs it.
> 
> The storm shakes the boards and rattles the glass.  In the flickering light of each lighting strike, Matt’s face is ashen pale.
> 
> Mohinder hasn’t prayed in years, but his own vision swims as he bows his head over Matt’s and invokes every _deva_  he can think of – not for them, but for Molly, and Janice, and Matt Jr.

 

***

 

Hiro says, “I’ve been learning to control my power.”

He says, “I think that just like lives branch and intersect, so can timelines.

If I find the right moment, I can keep this future from branching away from a better alternative.”

 

(Matt thinks Hiro could still use a little work on his English, because that made no sense.)

“Like a bonsai tree.  Prune away what is wrong to leave that which is good.”

(Mohinder understands this better.  His mother had a garden, and he used to watch her tend it.)

“And I think that everything that happens in one timeline has echoes in the rest.

If we do what is right in our world, maybe we will make other timelines better, too.”

 

Apparently Hiro can’t just save one world; he has to save them all.

***

Mohinder sits in a corner of the room, Matt’s head resting on his thigh.

They ignore the rubble beside them, and listen to the wall of sound trying to break the walls down.

In the dark, their hands find each other and don’t let go.

They wait for their world to change.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old story; I am updating my archive here for completion.


End file.
